The Only Man I Called 'Dad'

     I know it has been an extremely long time since my last update on this site, and I apologize for that, but this is something far too important to not share.

     I need to tell you about someone that came into my life. More accurately, I came into his life. When I met the man that I was to marry, we both knew that it was meant to be. So, he invited me to live with him and his two parents who both took me in without hesitation. His father, William Condinzio Sr., accepted me with true Italian gusto, happy to have me in the fold, offering me food at every turn. That's how you knew he loved you; he would always make sure you were fed so you would stick around longer. Over time, the only man that I would call dad and I would share a bond over sweets and desserts, something rarely shared with others in the house. It would amaze me that a large box of treats would vanish on the day that they were bought. It was sometimes infuriating, but mostly amusing and endearing. I'd usually crack a smile to myself when I saw the vacant area where they were seen last. That's how I learned the house rule 'you snooze, you lose'. Aside from that, when he saw you, he would often offer food, or a list of edibles in the kitchen, sometimes even while you were in the process of making something to eat. "No, Dad, I don't need a snack while I wait for the two minutes on the microwave, but thank you."

     Dad would also offer bits of trivial facts, just so you had the knowledge for later. "There's [a list of food] in the pantry, there's [a list of food] in the refrigerator, I could make [a prepared food option] if you want, the garbage goes out tonight, the car is in the garage, I'll be in my room." "Okay. Thanks, Dad." That would often be a joke with Will and I. "There's clean towels in the bathroom. Also, there's food in the kitchen and the car is in the garage." Dad just wanted things to be as easy as possible for the family. He was a very kind and generous man. He'd give you the shirt off his back, which is my own internal explanation as to why he was often shirtless; he gave them all away! Even in times of great pain, he would often offer his pain medication to the rest of the family if they weren't feeling all too great. Family came first.

     I'm going to miss the hell out of him (and his cooking). I'll try to do Will right by him, but I know my food will be nowhere near as good as his. I'll also miss his unique vocabulary. "I had a 'snizzle' of your cheesecake." I'd joke with him, "Oh, word?!" "Yeah! It was pretty good!" 'Snizzle' is totally in my everyday speak, now.

The void is something very tangible and it hurts like a sonovabitch, but knowing that I was lucky enough to have called this man Dad does offer some comfort.

I love you, Dad. More than a snizzle. There's food in the kitchen, the car is in the garage, and you're always in our hearts.